


or worse...expelled

by thebrotherswholoved



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Domestic, Fluff, High School, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, Tumblr: thebrotherswholoved, Wincest - Freeform, dads, it’s not actually wincestiel, jack’s three dads, just guys being dads, normal lives, they’re just coparents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 06:45:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17218913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebrotherswholoved/pseuds/thebrotherswholoved
Summary: a blessed tumblr user gave me a prompt—and I thought I’d be a jolly lad and deliver:“Stranger: [crying] your son hit me in the face!Sam: Jack! Why did you do that???Jack: They said 'what are those?' I just gave them a closer look.”I changed it up a bit like the cheeky rascal I am:)





	or worse...expelled

**Author's Note:**

> CONTRARY TO THE TITLE THAT I CAME UP WITH AT FOUR IN THE MORNING ON 600 MG OF IBUPROFEN AND PAIN MEDS, THIS IS NOT A HARRY POTTER FANFIC

Dean has always known where this life would lead him. It didn’t seem far fetched a year ago to envision his own death at the hands a hungry ghoul, emaciated vamp, or even at the hands of the monster they let into their home, the one he denied and denied as part of his adopted family until he was out of breath. Last year, Dean only saw pseudo-infant Jack Kline as a threat, not only to his clan but to the world.

 

He’d always thought he knew that the road so far would continue into the dead end ahead, that he’d never escape this hunter hell to fulfil his desperate pleas for domestic life, locked gun storage, and worn sigils under wallpaper and rugs, long forgotten by their Michelangelo.

 

He never in a million years thought that he’d be here: sitting in shitty lunchroom chair between his now-official adopted son and brother-turned-lover, who’s trying to send a bat signal to the couple’s fallen angel friend (and coparent) while side-eyeing the terrifying woman in front of them. He’s gotten so lost in the blue-green-yellow abyss of Sam’s eyes that he’s forgotten altogether why the hell he’s sitting here—that is, until he reads the plaque on the desk before the quartet.

 

 _Mrs_. _Harriet_ _Allen_

 _Dean_ _of_ _Students_ _and_ _President of_ _Scholastic_ _Affairs_

 

Oh, yeah. This buzzkill is trying to buzz- _kill_ his son, which he hopes she knows isn’t going to happen. He may have had a spinal injury five months ago but he can still body-bag her if need be. In an unfortunate turn of events, she notices the devious grin forming on Dean’s face in all the grotesque insanity of “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

 

“Is something funny, Mr. Winchester?” She snaps at him. He watches her wrinkles crease and release with anger and has to look away to avoid snort-laughing.

 

“Not at all, _Harriet_ ,” he pops his lips with a stern gaze of challenging authority and a smug raise of his eyebrow.

 

Sam gives him a look that says “what the hell are you doing” and flinches when she shuts the drawer of her Ikea desk (the builder of which, per Dean, did a shitty job assembling it) in a rather abrupt and terrifying way. Dean doesn’t even flinch, but becomes intrigued when she maintains eye contact while flipping open an ominous-looking manila folder. The thing has four, maybe five pieces of paper enclosed and has been desecrated with shaky, all-uppercase letters spelling out the words “KLINE-WINCHESTER, JACK.”

 

“My plaque says Mrs. Allen and so you will call me Mrs. Allen,” her thick-rimmed glasses dip on her ski slope nose when she narrows her gaze at Cas, who hasn’t uttered a thing in almost ten minutes.

 

Pushing the lenses back to magnify her grey-black eyes, she clears her throat and looks at Jack, who’s been twiddling his thumbs and fiddling with his bracelets since they arrived. “Mr. Kline-Winchester, do you know why I’ve called you and your...retinue here today?”

 

“These are my dads,” he clarifies with a meek flicker of his hooded eyes. “And, yeah, I do, ma’am.”

 

“Alright, and would you like to tell your _dads_ what the reason is?” She shuffles her chair—faux leather, Dean notes, already shrivelling and flaking apart—forward to intimidate. Mrs Allen sees these three men as unruly subjects to her velvet fist, but it’s revealed by her heel tapping beneath the desk that she sees Dean as more of a threat to her authority than the rest of Jack’s “retinue.”

 

Jack glances down the row at Sam, who’s trying to be a stern father by raising an eyebrow—an empty gesture to say the least, and then moves to distracted-by-superiority Dean, and ends at Cas, poor Cas and his helpless glint of confused trepidation that has become his defining characteristic.

 

Inhaling a shaky breath laced with lack of understanding at his offence, he begins his avowal in this hell of a confessional. “I...hit someone.”

 

Mrs Allen leans forward again. “Where did you hit them?”

 

“In the face. Inferior to the nasal bone.” He says in a signature “Castiel” matter-of-fact way—no room for bullshit. Sam can’t help but let out a breathy chuckle at his use of the terms he learned in Anatomy last week, the exam on which he got a 98 percent. “I didn’t feel any cracking. It was a low-impact hit, and it’d cause a superficial bruise at the w—“

 

“That’s enough, thank you,” Harriet puts her hand up to stop the inevitable spiel about medical terminology. God, Sam loves his quirky nerd of a son. “Why did you hit Mr. Hiscock?”

 

Dean snorts and doesn’t even try to hide it. He actually feels bad for this Hiscock kid—not because of Jack’s ‘low-impact’ punch but because his last name is just unfortunate. Mrs Allen really hates that he did that, and slams her fist down on the table.

 

“That is incredibly inappropriate, Mr Winchester,” she grumbles, but all Dean can see is Nurse Ratchet in her place. Poor Jack has to be Danny DeVito, though. He mouths a mocking apology and sits back in his chair like he did as a jock in high school. “Jack, continue. Why did you hit...Ivan?”

 

“Well, I didn’t _mean_ to hit him.” Jack attempts to explain his “extensive misconduct” as the letter said—fuck, Sam thought he’d been caught having sex or smoking pot. The reality is that Jack Kline in all his purity thinks sex is for marriage and “pot” is for flowers. “I think he misunderstood...or maybe I did.”

 

Harriet squints her eyes at the boy and folds her arms, wedding rings becoming visible. Dean’s concentration is playing Never Have I Ever with some drunk sophomores in the janitor’s closet by now, but he finds it surprising that she found someone to marry at all. Maybe she’d been preppy and beautiful in her youth, but her significant other could still ride his Acorn stairlift to freedom.

 

“What could Ivan have misunderstood, Jack?”

 

The sixteen-year-old literal toddler watches Cas fiddle with his trench coat button and sighs. “Well...he asked me about my bracelets.”

 

Mrs Allen moves to scan his wrists for these supposed wristbands but can’t see his hands over her giant plaque. “What bracelets?”

 

“Oh, these!” He perks up like Dean had snuck him a Pixie Stick or something, surprising everyone in the room. Jack jerks his wrists into the air and smiles. “Cas got a kit for Christmas, and so Sam, Dean, and Cas made some for me. They’re supposed to be friendship bracelets, but I like to call them ‘family bracelets.’”

 

Sam is the first to show his blue-green threaded band with a soft smile. “Mine says ‘ **happiness** **is** **only** **real** **when** **shared.”** It’s a quote from Into the Wild.”

 

“And mine,” Dean rolls up his sleeve to reveal his own purple and red wristband, “says ‘ **kick** **some** **ass,**   **kid’** because I’m not a nerd like my husband.”

 

Harriet is caught off-guard when Cas speaks, probably having expected a light and airy voice instead of the deep, monotone one that sounds when he holds his wrist up to show the black-white-yellow pattern he dons. “Mine says ‘ **go** **watch** **the** **bees.’** You won’t understand it if you weren’t there at the time.”

 

“Dude, _you_ weren’t even there at the time,” Dean whispers at the angel, who simply nods his head to the left. “You were so spray-paint-high on barbiturates and propofol that you made your way into a cornfield to catch the damn bee. Sammy and I chased you for, like, twenty minutes.”

 

“Enough, please,” Harriet is rubbing at her temples now, praying to God, who’s currently in Cuba on a sabbatical, for this to end soon. “Jack, what did Ivan say about your bracelets that made you punch him? Was it a bullying situation?”

 

Jack shakes his head and scrunches up his nose in thought. “No...he pointed at them and yelled ‘what are those?!’ So, I showed them to him. I didn’t mean to hurt him, even though he does throw grapes at me at lunch. I don’t even _like_ grapes.”

 

This time, Sam is the one to break down into a fit of laughter, unbridled and uncontainable, because of his son’s comment. Dean falls from grace next and joins his giant lover in his spasms of glee, not caring about the daggers Mrs Allen is eyeing them with. Cas just looks at the woman and in all his naïveté ignores the way his coparents are behaving.

 

“Is Jack in trouble, ma’am?” His blue eyes flutter and squint in confusion. “The letter we got threatened expulsion, and if he’s expelled I’ll have to buy more Crunch Cookie Crunch and nougat.”

 

Harriet has been forced into defeat by this junior and his dysfunctional parents, and therefore sighs and leans back while pinching the bridge of her nose.

 

“No, he’s not.” She mutters despite the noise from the two men still calming down. “Now, can you _please_ get out of my office?”

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know what I’m doing at this point. Once again, I must specify that I was very medicated and very “shit-faced” when I wrote this steaming pile of rubbish. So I’m sorry.


End file.
